


A Madman's Hope

by shirogiku



Series: Root Causes & Shaky Foundations [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th Century Nerdery, Cute Marrieds, F/M, Foreshadowing, Gen, James Regrets His Entire Life Probably, James's Issues, London, M/M, Mentions of Poverty and Period-Typical Nastiness, Miranda Being Miranda, Multi, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Thomas Asks Questions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wapping, sodomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a measure of controlled madness in trying to see the world from an innately contrary point of view.</p><p>(In which Thomas asks Lt. McGraw for an extended tour, and also Why Sodomy Is So Bad.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Madman's Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts), [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).



> I have no excuse for any of this, hope you guys enjoy :)

“ _For they can conquer who believe they can.”_  

— John Dryden’s translation of Virgil (1697)

 

Thomas couldn’t have fathomed _not_ inviting Lieutenant McGraw to his salons: it was essential that he be introduced to the environment in which Thomas’s ideas were flourishing - softly-softly, as Miranda always reminded him. In fact, he had been looking forward to engaging so highly literate an officer.

Instead, McGraw spent the entire evening in a stiff, completely buttoned-up silence. Oh, he spoke when spoken to alright, and his manners remained impeccable, but nothing like an Opinion ever escaped his lips. The two longest conversations that he had had were with a Fellow of the Royal Society (astronomy and its practical application at sea), and over a drink with Miranda, who would not reveal a word of what had been said. Not all these evenings were necessarily shining successes, but perhaps for the first time, Thomas had found himself willing the hands of the clock to move faster.

When, at last, his parlour had all but emptied out, Miranda bid McGraw a good night and left the room with a pointed glance that could mean anything from a warning to an encouragement. Thomas chose to interpret it as the latter.

“Shall we finish the wine?” It was his thinking wine, and yet, it had been heavy on his head tonight.

McGraw should have no cause to refuse it, but his eyes strayed towards the door. To lighten the mood, Thomas raised his glass, its contents well illuminated, and asked:

“Have you ever heard of the war between the Universities of Reims and Paris, over which wine is the finest, Champagne or Burgundy?” McGraw had not. “It all started in the year 1693, with a new Royal Physician. Where his predecessor had been a fervent admirer of Champagne, Monsieur Fagon banished it in favour of Burgundy, choosing as the vehicle of administering the King’s medicine. And so, as Versailles is the model for everything in France, the hostilities had begun.” He caught McGraw’s abortive snort. “Pray, do not think it any tamer than the warring Roses. But I am no military man myself, so I shall take you to May, 1700, when Monsieur Le Pescheur presented his argument before the University of Reims, establishing that _their_ wines were infinitely superior to anything that Burgundy could ever hope to produce. Such an affront could not go without an answering shot fired. November, the same year, Monsieur de Salins took up his mighty pen. I keep both of their manuscripts in my library, for they are such a fine example of fruitless debating.”

McGraw deemed it very droll indeed.

“Monsieur Le Pescheur invokes the name of none other than Bacchus, can you imagine?” His enthusiasm growing as he went along, he quoted in French, barely remembering to translate: “ _This is what Bacchus, or at least those of discriminating taste, would never approve of; their saps are too incompatible._ Oh, and the reply is so, so _wonderful_. Monsieur de Salins calls him ‘ _yet another Champenois who can only judge good qualities in wines because he has read about them in his books, and apparently has never seen any vineyard other than his own._ ’ Which brings me to my reasons for this continuing imposition on your person.”

“Where there is work to be done, there can be no imposition,” McGraw assured him.

An admirable sentiment, “But surely there must be something or someone I have been keeping you away from? Your safe harbour at the end of a long day?”

The question was personal, he was well aware of that. But his little gamble paid off: he learnt that his liaison's zeal came at least partly from the lack of alternatives - such a _lonely_ way to live.

“How high _is_ your tolerance of eccentricity, Lieutenant?”

McGraw blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“My conduct matches not your expectations. I follow no fixed schedule, I chase after every tangent, drawing inspiration from the oddest sources, and I am relentless in my pursuits. My question for you is, at which point do you tell yourself: ‘This here is a madman, and he cannot be reasoned with?’” It was an echo of their very first conversation - the lieutenant’s lukewarm reception of his ramblings had left him on a less than certain footing.

McGraw let his gaze drop, marshalling his thoughts. To Thomas’s surprise, when he looked up, there was a smile lurking in it - wary and wry, but definitely there. “Experience is the best judge of character, my lord.”

Thomas chuckled. “Is that so? Oh no, don’t let me start another debate. Experience is _exactly_ what I’m after, for I have no wish to remain the ignorant man from Champagne who can’t see farther than his own vineyard.”

“A fair point, but from what you yourself have just told me, those words were a vitriolic attack on a despised opponent, not a piece of constructive criticism.”

Thomas almost clapped his hands in delight. There it was, the back-and-forth that he had been hoping for! “I have made some unorthodox plans for tomorrow and I would like you to be here first thing in the morning.”

The lieutenant paused. “Will Lady Hamilton be joining you?”

It was such a _tough_ choice, Miranda had said, between staying abed and sneaking out on a foolish Escapade. _Perhaps next time, unless you send your poor liaison packing._ Thomas would coax her out yet, once the bond was strong enough.

 _If_ , not when. He must not rush it, however impatient he had been for a worthy partner. “Meet me by the servants’ entrance if you please.”

McGraw was as good as his word, arriving at seven o’clock sharp. One look at Thomas, and several stock responses were discarded out of hand.

“Well, what do you think?” He was loath to waste time on such trifles (Miranda would judge him for that).

“You are without your wig, my lord,” McGraw finally managed to say.

“Thomas,” he corrected, in a gentle tone.

“My lord Thomas.”

“Right, we shall have to work on that.” He cleared his throat. “So, what do you make of my disguise? Would I pass for… um, a foreign factor?” He donned the hat that he had acquired especially for this.

“You would pass for an Earl’s eldest son who has been robbed of his wig, my lord Thomas,” his liaison deadpanned.

He followed the lieutenant’s gaze back to the silver buttons crowding the front of his own coat. How conspicuous, even at the dim hour! “I shall go and change post haste - wait for me, and _don’t_ go anywhere.”

Inevitably, his darting about did not pass unnoticed. In a sleepy, muffled voice, his dear wife asked him if there was a fire. Anything short of a fire was _not_ a good reason to barge in on her before she had made her morning toilet.

“Yes! No!” He pleaded for her help lest he be forced to bring in his liaison for fashion advice.

“Oh, I like that.” She rang for tea. “It’s a shame _I_ can’t use it. It wouldn’t be proper of me.”

“ _Miranda_ , you know how serious this is!”

“You are the most ridiculous man in London,” she replied, before working her magic and giving him the least lordly outward appearance that anyone could have suspected of him. She kissed him on the forehead and told him to be careful.

The lieutenant, who had been patiently waiting for him for the past half hour, found no fault with the end result. “May I ask what is our destination?”

The truth was, the crowd at Execution Dock would not leave his thoughts. “You have been of a great help showing me the limits of my understanding of human nature and its darker aspects.” His smile was meant to disarm. “Therefore, I humbly submit myself to your full guidance.”

“Forgive me…” McGraw drew a loud, nervous breath. “But do I understand this right? You wish  _ me  _ to educate  _ you  _ more on human nature? Why on earth would you consider that necessary or appropriate?”

“Pray don’t take offense! I am but a creature of books and salons. And if I must step outside my birthright and privilege for our project to succeed, then so be it.”

Unlike his father, he chose not to overlook the plight of the poor. In the past, he had tried bringing commoners to his little gatherings, which had gone about as well as might have been expected. But if the hill would not come to him, he would go over to the hill, and take his salons with him. 

“I fear I sound like one of those people who buy souvenirs at executions, but nothing could be further from my intention. This is about my education, not my personal entertainment, and especially not at  _ your  _ expense.”

McGraw’s frown was beginning to spell resignation. “Why me, though?”

Who else could it be? But it was true that they were neither childhood friends nor each other’s confidantes. “Because you would be honest with me, even if that means challenging my assumptions.” He could have asked for no greater gift.

“And there is no one else to do the job?”

“I’m afraid not.” He sped up towards the street corner, taking long strides. “Why don’t we begin with _your_ London? Where did you grow up?”

“Padstow.”

“Oh. That’s not very London. Which is to say, I have very nearly imagined Wapping, in plain view of the gallows.” There went his good explanation for the grim outlook. It was a relief, though. “May I see your ship? Your current posting?”

McGraw made a noncommittal noise - before launching into a tirade as passionate as it was labyrinthine, on why that would be a bad idea. The Royal Navy was its own closed-off world, with its arcane rules and customs. Perhaps his presence would be considered bad luck, who knew? Like that irrational prejudice against women aboard.

He stopped McGraw from hailing a carriage and insisted on walking on foot. He had just become a foreigner in his own city, trading his native affluence for a rowdier bustle. They had missed the rooster cries of the little chimney sweeps and the milk women. The unending stream of carriages and drays, the myriad tongues and feet, the church towers, the bells of the postmen, the musical instruments of the mountebanks, and the calls of the hawkers all blended into one explosive cacophony. McGraw subtly steered him through it, through the refuse, the collapsing signs and the pickpockets. Nevertheless, his purse was slowly but surely lightening itself.

“Permission to speak bluntly?” McGraw asked practically in his ear.

“You have had it since the beginning of this journey, my Virgil.”

McGraw had read Dryden’s translation, but was unfamiliar with the Divine Comedy, which did not enjoy a universal popularity among their countrymen. Suffice to say, the lieutenant was as exemplary a sea officer as Virgil had been an exemplary Roman citizen.

“Do you do this often, then?” There was a new edge to McGraw’s tone. “Take on charity cases?”

“I do what I can for those less fortunate than myself, if that is your meaning.”

McGraw met his eyes. “You would do well not to mistake me for such, my lord.”

He faltered, taken aback. “Oh dear God, no! If anything, it is _you_ who must be charitable with me. It is my lottery of birth against your rising through the ranks on merit alone.”

That made it two of them blocking the way. “If this... _exercise_ is supposed to prove your resolve to me, then there is no reason to continue, for I don’t doubt it.”

Thomas shook his head. “The day has only just begun.” He stepped onto a porch. “Let us talk more of you and your reluctance to debate in public. Do you disagree that education is an intrinsic right, not a privilege?”

“You were championing for poverty relief,” McGraw replied. “Education _was_ touched upon, but only in passing.”

Thomas grinned. “So you _have_ been paying attention. What have you got against poverty relief?”

“Nothing, besides it not actually solving the problem. Those funds would be better directed elsewhere.”

“Such as new dockyards, I take it?” A Hobbesian man through and through. “But what of the families who depend on the Government’s support? If it were to stop, where would they turn to?”

The argument grew so heated - on both ends - that they scarcely watched their step.

“Now,” McGraw whispered. “I have a question for you. Can you bring yourself to follow orders?”

That… _probably_ should not stir his imagination like it did. “Command me, Lieutenant.”

He was to do as McGraw said, and _no_ giving alms, no matter the sorry state of the supplicants in their path.

“I am not at all alarmed by that,” he said.

“It still isn’t too late to turn back, you know.”

Caught between the naval yards and London Bridge, Wapping was made of crumbling houses, drinking houses and whatever structures spawned by the shipping business. Its nickname, as McGraw explained, was ‘the Ooze’, and not entirely on the account of the marshes and the river.

It was home to those who had no means of moving up in the world. Trash and manure heaped up with nobody to collect them. Windows were to be avoided. Thomas’s heart went to a lone, starved-looking horse, and he dearly regretted not having any food on him.

“It rained yesterday, so it could’ve been worse,” McGraw commented.

Thomas braced himself and tried not to breathe too deeply. London had not seen any major plagues since last century, but Wapping had clearly not been informed, and its swarms of hungry children were a visceral horror.

“How do they _survive_?”

“Barely,” was the dry reply. “As thieves, vagrants, pirates. _This_ is where it starts.”

Thankfully, not _everybody_ in Wapping had been brought so low. There were innkeepers and merchants and sailmakers, and even craftsmen, officers, and ship captains of modest means. After Thomas had lost his footing one time too many, McGraw took him to an alehouse, the owner of which, a large, ruddy-faced Cornish man, greeted McGraw like a friend. Thomas introduced himself as Mr. Greene.

“Well, that has been… a necessary dose of reality,” he said, nursing his drink. Theirs was a corner table, offering a good view of the other patrons, some of which looked back, entirely unkindly.

“Have you seen enough?” At this point, McGraw must be praying for a white flag.

“If I can guess which ship is yours, will I win myself a tour?”

The good lieutenant glanced heavenwards. “Such visits _are_ a complicated matter... Mr. Greene.”

“Are you not on good terms with your captain or your fellow officers? Must you ask for permission?”

McGraw declared that he wasn’t in the habit of smuggling people aboard, regardless of their station. However, he could see about making the arrangements _without_ the subterfuge for which Thomas seemed to have developed a taste.  

‘Mr. Greene’ tried the drink, which was… medicinal. Yes, that was the word.

“What’s next?” McGraw asked with the barest touch of sarcasm. “A hospital? A poorhouse? The Sodomites’ Walk? Or perhaps you should like to climb up a chimney?”

The third option sounded especially thrilling. “I have never understood it, though. The idea of sodomy.”

Why must the Society govern people’s beds, to say nothing of their hearts? And why some carnal pursuits unbalanced its established structure so much more than others?

“It is not to be _understood._ It is a fact of life like…”

“Murder?” he ventured.

McGraw shifted in his seat. “Well, that _is_ rather harsh, I must say.”

Thomas studied him attentively. “Leaving political machinations out of the picture for a moment, I can never understand why it remains a hanging offence. I can _maybe_ understand the Russian monarch enforcing taxes on long beards and robes, but this?” McGraw blinked. “This is not something I can play the devil’s advocate for. If there is a measure of controlled madness in trying to see the world from an innately contrary point of view, then here I arrive at my limit, and not one that I care to alter. Perhaps you, as a Naval officer and a man with a strict code of propriety, might explain it to me? What is it that is so shameful and unforgivable about sodomy? Why must it not be mentioned?”

The lieutenant was staring at him openly. “Beg your pardon? You wish _me_ to explain to _you_ why sodomy is all those things?”

He smiled in encouragement. “If it isn’t too much trouble. Also, while you are at it, why it is such a threat to civilisation itself.”

James clenched his jaw. “You expect too much of me, sir, after protesting such a profound… innocence.”

Well. “Sodomy and piracy seem destined to walk hand in hand. A world of men, admitting no female presence…” Which could also apply to the Navy, and _not_ as any personal slight. “Honestly, lieutenant! _Why_ the frothing rage?”

His Virgil remained silent, wrestling with some inner demons. Interesting.

“You don’t understand it yourself, do you?” he asked softly, leaning forward to place his hand on McGraw’s shoulder. “Some things, you are forced to accept as a given. There is no shame in that. But not being satisfied with what you have been told all your life is the root of true learning.” His smile grew wryer. “Speaking from a personal experience.”

“Learning, you say? That kind of learning can only pave the road to true madness! Such as no man can control.” McGraw glared at him. “If you doubt and question every foundation you turn your attention to, you as good as sympathise with the outcasts and rejects!”

He nodded. “I do sympathise with them. However, sympathy from a man in my position is but an empty promise until it leads to a real, _tangible_ change. The law should not pit men _or_ women against their true nature - it should guide them in moving forward as something larger and greater than themselves.”

McGraw kept shaking his head at him.

“‘ _Have you lost your mind, Thomas_?’” he parroted a certain someone. “‘ _Have you no shame_?’”

The corners of McGraw’s mouth twitched up. “That was rather good.”

He sat up as straight as if before a panel of his old time tutors. “ _In most cases, a man trying to change the world fails for one simple and unavoidable reason: everyone else - and smiling is a hanging offence too.”_

McGraw chuckled. “My words have stayed with you, it seems. You aren’t entirely off the mark, though: sodomy is not so uncommon among seamen of all trades. For a man to be persecuted for it, some other motives must be present. Politics, or say, his superiors’ displeasure. So, in itself, such a proclivity cannot justify turning pirate. For example, about half a century ago, a sixteen-year old called John Durrant allowed himself to be buggered by a Lascar. Many people, both Christian and Hindu, testified to the fact, and the offenders were each given forty lashes. But note that the death penalty was never enforced. These days, sodomy is mostly blamed on Papist influences, especially French. It is very versatile, as far as laying blame goes.”

A forbidden love affair! Miranda would like that. “What was the Lascar’s name?” McGraw did not know. “Did they remain shipmates?”

“I really cannot say.”

“Well, I hope they did.”

“You _hope_ they continued buggering each other?”

“If such was their hearts’ desire, I fail to see why not. They had already been punished for it enough.”

He took mercy on his hapless guide and kept to print shops and coffee-houses for the rest of the tour - those which he could not enter as an Earl’s scion and heir, etc. He was, frankly, delighted by how many new doors were opened to him by the lieutenant’s protective if somewhat brooding presence by his side.

Unlike Paris, London had no watchmen to enforce the public order. The closest thing was a man with a stick and a lantern who called the hour and the state of the weather during his rounds from door to door. McGraw _had_ warned Thomas about how late it had grown, but true to himself, he had got carried away.

Suddenly, a pale hand reached for him out of the shadows. “Come, my lord! Drink to the Queen’s health with me!”

The lass had a loud, harsh voice, but she looked so very young and so very cold. He was about to lend her his coat when more footsteps approached them from the nearest alley.

A tall, towering man with a face crisscrossed with jagged scars, spat on the ground, cursing the lass for never doing anything right. The rest of the ruffians jeered.

Then he saw McGraw’s sword. “We’ll be relieving you of your purses, gentlemen, and you’ll do well not to resist.”

Nothing about this setup was a good conclusion to the day. “We don’t have much coin, I’m afraid-”

Before he could fully express himself, he was on the ground, his head spinning, blood coming from his split lip. It took him longer to recover his wits than it took McGraw to run the man through. Thomas’s stomach rebelled, once again rendering him incapable of action. A few more precise sword swings from McGraw, more naval than gentlemanly, and the survivors were fleeing for their lives.

All of them save for the girl, who helped Thomas up to his feet fearfully. McGraw’s face was cast in shadow, but something about its set alarmed Thomas far more than the deaths themselves did.

The lieutenant’s furious gaze locked with his. “Tell me this wasn’t your design, or it _shall_ be the end of our collaboration!”

“I would never purposefully expose any partner of mine to such a danger.”

McGraw bit back a curse. “What about exposing yourself? On _my_ watch.”

He apologised for that, too, before asking the lass’s name and whether she had a place to go back to or not.

“You would employ a robber in your father’s house?” McGraw whispered.

“Miss Poll is not a robber. Only a reluctant accomplice.”

McGraw found Thomas’s handkerchief and tended to his battle wound in wordless disapproval. By some miracle, the damage was but superficial. The coat was loaned regardless. With no carriages in sight, they had to walk all the way back home, McGraw keeping a weather eye out for more danger.

“I have asked for your permission to speak bluntly,” McGraw said, “but I fear I have not been blunt enough in answering your previous question. It’s not all kings and their ambitious favourites. Cabin boys, young apprentices, children, boys who cannot earn their living otherwise, and all manners of violence. Isn’t it fair to hang men for such atrocities?”

“Oh, Lieutenant, but your law was not designed to protect them. Yes, they must be punished, but for their right crimes. Rape, violence and abuse of power. Why are there a hundred kinds of thieves in this city, but only one name for the crime in question? What the law actually does is _facilitate_ the creation of scapegoats. Innocent men live in fear because the Society can’t sort out its bogeymen.”

“You are a remarkable man, my lord.” And McGraw said no more.

Miranda was awake, and after Thomas had been judged by everybody (not counting the poor girl, who was moving as if in a dream), they had a pleasant tea in the middle of the night.

“Will you be accompanying Thomas on more excursions, then?” Miranda inquired innocently.

McGraw choked on his tea. “Uh... I was rather hoping to show your husband around my ship, ma’am. Hopefully, without any casualties.”

Beaming at him, Thomas was very nearly cured of his accumulated pains and aches.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote Thomas parodies here is taken directly from ep 2x01. The flame war over wine, I got nearly verbatim from [here](http://gargantuanwine.com/2016/02/burgundy-vs-champagne-highlights-from-an-18th-century-flame-war/), including the quotes.
> 
> Thomas's new slash fandom is mentioned [ here](https://books.google.gr/books?id=gS8hBQAAQBAJ&lpg=PT166&dq=%22In%201762%2C%20Martin%20Billin%22&pg=PT165#v=onepage&q&f=false). The Hindu guy does have a name there, the poke is at all the times when Black Sails doesn't name a character of colour.
> 
> And finally, Dante was 100 % canonically gay for Virgil! And I haven't even read their canon whoops


End file.
